Page 100 - WINE DINE AND TRAVEL WINTER SPRING 2022

A year went by. I couldn’t wait to try out my new She turned and grinned, “You want to gallop now?”
skills again, so I signed up for a week of riding at an “Yes, I’d love to!”
Equestrian Center in Tuscany. I had visions of riding
“Galoppo!” she cried. Amigo sprang to life be-
through vineyards and olive groves. I even bought
hind her gray mare.
brand new paddock boots which squeaked as I
My heels fought to stay on top of the stirrups,
walked to the corral.
and I kept reaching for the nonexistent horn. En-
“You can ride?” asked the owner, Enrica.
rica seemed to float up and down in the saddle
“Oh yes,” I said. I told her how I’d ridden with the whereas I slammed up and down on my backside,
advanced riders in the Sierra Nevada. struggling not to lose the reins. Then suddenly we
“That was Western,” she said, “English is very dif- were on a forest trail and a low branch scratched
ferent.” me across the face. “Help!” I cried.
How different could it be? She handed me a hel- Enrica pulled her horse to a stop and turned.
met (I would have preferred a Stetson), led me to a “What’s the matter?” she asked.
platform, and told me to mount my Arabian stallion,
“My face got scratched.”
Amigo.
She looked at me. “Well its not Amigo’s fault. He
I looked for the horn to grasp, but there was none. doesn’t know there’s a branch above him.” She
The saddle was very small, nothing like the large
turned and galloped off and Amigo took off racing
buttery-soft saddle in California. The stirrup was a behind her. We were going so fast that both my
narrow metal bar with no toe cover. What was going feet flew out of the stirrups. There was nothing
on here? I even had to hold the reins a different
left to keep me tethered to the horse.
way. Amigo and I followed Enrica’s speckled gray
“Help!” I screamed for the second time. Enrica
mare down the cobblestone road, then off the road turned around and in seconds was able to stop my
to a field of huge sunflowers shimmering in the sun.
runaway horse.
I was still gasping when she said, “I send you to
the arena with Danielli. He will teach you to ride
very well.”
And so I ended up back in a riding ring with six
other students – not five-year-olds, but all young
teenagers. “Uno due,” Danielli called, “One, two.” I
pulled myself up with my quads, then back down,
trying to post. I kept going down when the horse
went up and I was so sore I didn’t think I’d be able
to sit for weeks.
“Now, turn,” said Danielli, but my horse would
not.
The 12-year-old American girl behind me called
to Danielli, “Can I pass her? She’s too slow.”
Passed by a 12-year-old? This was humiliating.
Even more so when the five other teenagers
passed me. I could not turn my horse for the life of
me.
“Use your leg,” called Danielli. “Squeeze him.”
I finally turned Amigo, pumped my legs harder,
and again tried to post: up, down, up down. I was
so frustrated I could feel tears welling up but I
held them back. Cowgirls don’t cry. My knees

100 WINE DINE & TRAVEL MAGAZINE WINTER/SPRING 2022